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Bobcat Oct 2018
This bed it is a bridge
Of what is real and fantasy
I despise reality
I'd rather keep dreaming
Where I am free
To be alive
Where I will thrive 
And my heart can be
Free from knives 
I will not cry 
I can not feel
I stay in bed to escape what is real
To compensate for (A -Z)
     ineradicable alphanumeric
     character flaws (i.e. mutations
     of body or mind,)

     and avoid amass
sing wracking up vexatiously
     undesirable threatening class
action lawsuit against

     Matthew Scott Harris,
     which preliminary measure
     taken to avoid disembarrass
sing said individual as

     a majorly flawed individual
literal shortcomings of body,
     mind and spirit,
     the metier of writing doth encompass

a creative realm to trump
     geomorphology, sans groundmass
at the unsolicited expense
     (mine alter ego i.e. worst critic)

     will gleefully find,
     and expose grammatical,
     misspelling, spelling,
     et cetera errors to harass

glommed together with isinglass
hop, skip and jumping
     to appear as a *******
whereat no respect

     able collegiate lass
would give a fig about me,
     one totally tubular royal morass,
which expert anthropologists

     stumped asper nonclass
     if eye able ****
     sapiens mutant ninja turtle
case in point being his

     wanting in height not e'en pass
     sing the six foot mark
     plus mental illness
     perhaps traceable to

     besotted cognitive damage
     inherited predecessors
     quaffing an overdose of quass
made obvious peering at resulting

     Ct scan results viewed
     via microscopic spyglass
revealing abnormal amygdala
automatically designating
     his aptitude underclass
among average human
     with mettlesome Zeusian brass.
tabitha Jan 2016
when i was distant,
you were there
when i am here,
you are


the floor
getting brushed into corners
not knowing
where the pieces of you belong anymore

i think i know who i am
until the porcelain architecture of you
the sacred curvatures of your song
is put in my hands

should i glue you back together?
could i have a small piece? for keepsake
or should i just let you be safe
and let someone else
melt you down into
some other shape?

i thought if i held you,
you'd pry your wings open
and, well

but dear bird,
i am not magic 
i never was to begin with 
and now i must come to terms with this


why do
break every thing
Äŧül Jun 2015
If I lose my father,
I will be an orphan.

If I lose my mother,
I will be an orphan.

If I lose my loved one,
I will be an orphan.
My HP Poem #883
©Atul Kaushal
JR Falk May 2015
"You're always moving forward.
Just sometimes, the road gets bumpy as ****."
The road may get bumpy,
but I'm ever so clumsy.
Give me a spotter
otherwise I may break
something along the way.
I'm not saying I need to be saved,
I just need someone
to make sure I'm okay.
midnight conversations with johnny. 5/26/2015
Äŧül May 2015
Because often there are icy roads,
Icy roads coated with darkest ice,
They can make vehicles slip & crash,
All slip not only out of the icy roads,
But even into each other they collide,
These call for going slow in Oslo,
'Cause reasons suchlike prevail.

Neither snow chains can help much,
Nor being an expert driver help you,
No other thing is going to help you..

Help yourselves & others too,
Just go slow in Oslo...

My HP Poem #865
©Atul Kaushal
Austin Heath Mar 2014
If it gets you through the night,

you could sit there on the couch and pretend that I’m not listening.

We’ve been over this time and again, yet here you are flipped

from side B to side A. I hope your tape breaks and this message

is flipping in the wind on a tab with a marker

marked red. I hope you understand.

My life feels like vacation but my… well everybody

will promise you violence over practically nothing

and I think I deserve a better planet. Instead I’m here.

It’s marginally all my ego, but mostly I just want to disappear.

I swear; If I break a heart I’ll fix it, but I’m a disease and a symptom,

and I stick like bad religion. Worshipers take shelter from this cult.

I’d even stab you if I had proper motivation,

and I didn’t treat myself like my own martyr for nothing.

The “real” me may only be what you make of me anyways.

My image of myself only exists within my head,

and in that image I am rotten with perfection.

My only corduroy is torn and smells of bleach,

but I’m too sleepy to change into my skin.

I swear I’m more than just an ordinary sin,

just because I’m also my own martyr.

— The End —